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  Suddenly, there was a loud murmur within the crowd. Several people pointed to the street. A long white limo rolled toward the auditorium. It was led by a police cruiser. Another police car followed behind the limo. The crowd began to yell obscenities and moved toward the white limo. Police tried to hold them at bay.

  Douglas had turned down offers to sneak into town. He'd said on a news program that he was going to walk right in the front door of Masonic Temple. When asked why, Douglas had stated: "I won't take the back door for white people, and I sure as hell won't do it for black people." This comment had only put more fuel on the fire.

  The security men pushed the crowd back as the limo's door opened. Farrel Douglas got out. He was a tall, regallooking man, with a tangle of thick salt-and-pepper hair.

  The crowd booed loudly and threw debris at the justice. Douglas looked at them with disinterest. He set his eyes on the doors to the building, and started toward them as if he were headed for the promised land.

  The security men flanked Douglas, then enclosed him in a tight circle. They pushed and shoved their way through the crowd to their goal.

  The air was filled with yelling, profanity, and chanting. Flashbulbs exploded, and the TV cameras' hot lights poured over the spectacle. Douglas and the security officers moved slowly, but steadily, toward the big wooden doors.

  Halfway to their destination, a small black man broke through the security circle, and spit on Douglas's coat.

  "Fuckin' Tom!" yelled the man.

  A big FBI man pushed the smaller man back. The crowd screamed its disapproval and rushed toward the justice. The security circle started to break. The security men began to talk into their mikes all at once, then pushed Douglas faster to the doors.

  The crowd was now a mob, and it pursued the justice. The agents fought the crowd, inching their way to the auditorium. Douglas showed no fear. He never took his eyes off the big auditorium doors as he moved.

  Finally, Douglas and the agents arrived at the landing to Masonic Temple's entrance. A female FBI agent opened the doors. The crowd backed off a little, still yelling insults. Douglas started into the building, then stopped. Without warning, he turned on his heel and faced the angry mob. He stood there a moment, his face still expressionless. Then he smiled, and raised a fist.

  "Power to the people," he said. Then he walked back inside.

The crowd exploded in screaming and cursing. Debris landed on the big doors as they closed with a loud clang.

High in the dark rafters of Masonic Temple, a soft alarm sounded. A sleeping man awoke suddenly and turned off the mild beeping of his watch. He turned on his back, his eyes wide open and alert. He checked the watch again. The blue light on the illuminated dial threw dim light onto his face, making him look ominous, ghostly. Below him, music played, and he heard the muted voices of a crowd.

  The man reached to his side, and pulled a case toward his body. He opened the case, and switched on a small light inside. He checked the contents, then turned back onto his stomach and peered out of an opening facing the auditorium's stage. A large crowd was assembled and people in green robes filed in. He scanned the stage, and saw that it was decorated in green and gold. He closed one eye and squinted. He had a clear view of the speaker's podium.

  The man turned back onto his back in the cramped space and reached into the black box. He pulled out the stock of a high-powered rifle, and began to assemble it.

The graduation ceremony was about to get under way. The graduates and their families were seated. The crowd buzzed with anticipation. All over the auditorium, TV cameras lined the walls. Reporters practiced their lines and interviewed graduates and their families. In the background, the security men were on watch.

  The crowd grew silent as the music swelled. People quickly hustled to their seats. The dean of the school and other dignitaries marched out to the stage in their robes adorned with ornate sashes. Douglas walked in the middle of the procession, a stoic look on his face. In the audience, there were audible "boos" mixed in with the applause. Douglas seemed unaffected by the jeers. He took his place of honor as the keynote speaker next to the dean of the school.

  The ceremony began as planned. One dull speaker after another went to the podium and said his lines. The crowd and the media sat patiently, awaiting Douglas.

  Douglas himself seemed to enjoy the festivities. He sat quietly, listening politely to each speaker. But he seemed to tense as the dean started to announce him.

  ". . . and in today's legal world, there is no mind as keen, no heart as courageous as our keynote speaker. Graduates, faculty, parents, and family, I give you Justice Farrel Winston Douglas."

  The audience applauded loudly. Still, the jeers were there underneath the politeness of the moment.

  Douglas calmed himself, his face settling into a jurist's unreadable gaze. He rose and smiled graciously, then reached down to shake the hand of the dean, who was much shorter.

  The crowd rose to its feet; some graduates and parents did not stand. Douglas reached the podium, and shuffled some papers. He cleared his throat.

  "If I had known this many TV cameras would be here, I would have worn my
good
robe," Douglas said. The crowd laughed politely and seemed to settle. "I promised myself that I would not talk about myself today," Douglas continued. "But I will say this. Thirty years ago at Harvard, a white man spat on me for having the nerve to become a lawyer at this nation's most prestigious school. Today, a black man spat on me for having the nerve to be a judge who votes his conscience."

  The room was silent at this. Douglas took a drink of water from a cup that had been placed on the podium.

  "Graduates, future lawyers," he continued. "It takes courage to be in our profession. And that is what I want to talk about today. We may debate issues and ideologies, but one thing will never change. Throughout history, lawyers, black and white, have answered, and will continue to answer, the clarion call for justice."

  The audience broke into loud applause. Douglas seemed surprised at this. He allowed himself to smile a little. Photographers seized the chance to take pictures.

  Suddenly, Douglas was struck by something. He grabbed at his chest as a spray of blood flew from the wound. Douglas was shocked, his eyes wide with surprise. He stumbled back a little, bringing both hands up to his chest. The crowd gasped. Douglas's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Then, his forehead exploded.

  Douglas fell backward. His arms flailed out from his body and up in an arc, like a bird spreading its wings. Blood flew from his head and neck, rising in an arc, spreading and falling with the body of the wounded man.

  The dais on the stage dispersed in a frenzy. People in the audience screamed, and police rushed the stage. One FBI man pointed up into the lights.

  Another shot hit a man sitting behind Douglas. The man fell off his chair onto the stage, grabbing at his lower back. There was no report, no sound from the shots. Still another shot came, hitting the stage floor and splintering the wood.

  The audience bolted for the doors, knocking over TV cameras and reporters. On the stage, an FBI officer and a police detective stood over Douglas's body.

  "Ambulance!" yelled the FBI man.

  "The rafters!" yelled the detective. "The rafters!" Men and women from the security force ran toward the exits that led to the stairs.

  On the stage, Douglas's body lay in a pool of blood and tissue. His eyes were wide open, one filled with blood.

  The people around the body stayed away from it for a moment, then after they were sure the shooting was over they huddled around Douglas. A doctor checked for a pulse and yelled for everyone to move away. Douglas's body jerked and shook a moment, then it stopped.

  In the upper part of the building, a mixed squad of local police and Secret Service burst into the area. Adrenaline pumped as the men and women looked around the area, their guns out in front. The area was dark and musty, like an old attic. It was also deserted. No officers were there.

  "Who's covering this area?!" asked Don Bathers, the Secret Service leader. Bathers was a chunky man about forty with a thin mustache and glasses. He was breathing heavily and staring at each of his men with intensity. He went to the area where the shot had come from, a crawl space at the left wall. He stooped down and looked inside. The gun in his hand trembled and he lowered it to his side.

  "Collins and Deavers," someone quickly answered.

  "No," said a female officer. "Collins and Deavers had street duty. They brought Douglas inside. I saw them."

  "Who the fuck authorized that?!" asked Bathers.

  An FBI agent ran into the area. "Sir, we got a man with a gun downstairs!"

  "Let's go, now!" yelled Bathers.

  All of the officers quickly hustled back down the stairs into the main building.

  On the ground floor, several officers chased a young black man of about twenty through the bright hallways. The man was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a hat with African designs on it. In his right hand was a big black 9mm gun.

  He ignored the officers' calls to stop. One cop fired a warning shot that slammed into a concrete wall. The young man kept running as if he had heard nothing. He slammed into the front doors and ran outside.

  "He has a gun!" said a local cop to Bathers as the latter got on the ground floor. "He was told to surrender and he ran. He made it outside. It's a foot race now, sir."

  "Get everyone on him!" said Bathers. "I want him alive!"

  On the street, the three law enforcement groups chased the running man. The suspect ran toward Cass Corridor, a bleak, rundown part of the city. He turned on Second Avenue and tried to pick up his pace. His hurried breath made puffs of smoke in the cold air. His hat flew from his head, and long dreadlocks tumbled out, bouncing as he ran.

  The suspect stopped cold as he saw a Detroit police car turn a corner. The siren blared and the cherry lights flashed. He quickly ran to an old, vacant house. He tried to pry the old door open, but it was nailed shut.

  "Stop!" yelled a local cop behind the man.

  The suspect stopped. He was a dark and smallish man. Dreadlocks covered his face, making it difficult to see his features. He still held on to the gun.

  The cop was even younger. He was white and had the fresh face of a kid.

  "Drop the weapon and put your hands where I can see them," said the young cop.

  "I got you, Vic," said his partner behind him, a black man about thirty.

  The suspect wheeled around at the sound of the voices behind him. Absently, he raised the gun.

  Vic fired, hitting the suspect in the chest. The man fell backward. He hit the door, then fell forward onto his knees. He knelt there a moment, looking tired. Blood spread across his shirt, soaking the bright pattern. He dropped the gun he'd held in his hand.

  Vic went to the dead man and checked his pulse. "He's gone, Lenny," he said to his partner. "Shit, why did he do that?!"

  "It's okay," said Lenny. "It was clean." Lenny helped his young charge put his gun away, then he took a closer look at the dead man. "Jesus, that's not a gun."

  "What?" said Vic absently.

  "This is not a gun. It just looks like one. It's a piece of black wood."

  Vic began to panic, but his partner calmed him down. Bathers and his men got to the scene a moment later. Bathers was speechless for a second as he looked at the corpse on the cracked concrete of the decaying house.

  "Who shot this man, dammit?!" Bathers yelled.

  "I did," Vic said. "I had to."

  "It was clean," said Lenny. "We heard an armed suspect was being pursued. He had what appeared to be a gun in his hands."